as though daring any of us to point out that she only ever did one shoot, for the local paper. “We could take photos of me in store. In fact, I’m happy to take over social media. That can be my area.”
“I’ll focus on partnerships,” Jake chimes in at once. “Build up connections with some aspirational names.” He drains his glass and looks around. “Shall we get some more wine?”
“And you, Fixie?” says Uncle Ned. “What will you focus on?”
I stare at him, thoughts swirling furiously round my head. I want to say, “None of you get it! You don’t understand what Farrs is!”
But who will listen to me? No one except Mum. And I’m not bothering her with this; I’m not.
“Fixie, you’re so good in store,” says Nicole kindly. “You’re great with customers. You should focus on, like, sales and stock and running the staff and all that.”
“OK,” I say. “OK. But, listen, why don’t you two come into the shop? Actually come in and see the customers and, you know, remind yourselves of what it’s like?”
“Yeah,” says Jake thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea. What about tomorrow morning first thing?”
“I could do that.” Nicole nods.
“The only thing is, Bob’s coming in for a meeting,” I say, consulting my phone.
Bob is a rock. He runs all the payroll, collates sales figures, discusses big financial decisions with Mum, deals with the accountant, and basically helps with everything to do with money. Their partnership works well for Mum, because when she’s being asked to spend money she doesn’t want to, she says, “That’s a good idea, but I’ll have to ask Bob.” And everyone knows that Bob is as adventurous as a pair of elasticated beige trousers. (Which also happens to be what he wears.)
“All the better,” says Jake. “I haven’t talked to old Bob for ages. It’ll be useful to touch base with him.”
“Great!” I say eagerly. “I’ll text the staff to come in early.”
“I’ll pop along too,” says Uncle Ned. “Don’t want to neglect my duties!”
“Perfect,” I say. “Can’t wait.”
I pick up my spoon and return to my soup, trying to feel optimistic. Once Jake and Nicole really look at the shop, really remember it, really think about it…surely they’ll understand. After all, we’re siblings. We’re Farrs. We’re family.
* * *
—
The next morning I get to the shop extra early. I hurry around, wiping surfaces, adjusting displays, and smoothing tea towels. I feel like a nervous parent—proud and protective all at once. I want Jake and Nicole to feel the way I do about Farrs. I want them to get it.
I pause by the wipe-clean oilcloths and stroke them fondly. They’ve been such a winner—we’ve already reordered three times. They’re all in cool Scandi prints which our customers love. As I’m standing there, admiring the designs, I remember the night Mum and I sat with the catalog, choosing them. We both knew they’d sell, we knew.
“Morning, Fixie.” Stacey’s nasal voice greets me and I swing round. I need to talk to Stacey quickly before anyone arrives. “What’s the big deal?” she adds sulkily, sweeping her bleached-blond hair back with silver-painted nails. “Why did we have to come in early?”
“My brother and sister are coming in,” I say. “We wanted to have a quick meeting before we open. But there’s another thing I need to talk to you about first. A sensitive matter.”
“What?” says Stacey discouragingly. “Can I get a coffee?”
“No. This won’t take long.” I beckon her aside, even though there’s no one else in the shop, and lower my voice. “Stacey, you mustn’t give sex tips to customers.”
“I don’t,” says Stacey seamlessly.
I breathe out and remind myself that Stacey’s basic default position is denial. I once said, “Stacey, you can’t leave now,” and she said, “I wasn’t,” even though she was halfway through the door with her coat on.
“You do,” I say patiently. “I heard you with that girl yesterday afternoon. Talking about…” I lower my voice still further. “Clips? Clamps?”
“Oh, that.” Stacey rolls her eyes dismissively. “That just came up in conversation.”
“In conversation?” I stare at her. “What kind of conversation?”
“I was explaining the product,” she says, unperturbed. “Like we’re supposed to.”
“Those clips are for sealing plastic bags!” I hiss. “They’re for kitchen use! Not for…”
There’s silence. I’m not finishing that sentence. Not out loud.
“Nipples,” says Stacey.
“Shhh!” I bat my hands at her.
“You think everyone who buys those clips is using them on plastic bags?” she says dispassionately, chewing her gum, and my mind